


Pinjre Mein Chand

by toujours_nigel



Category: Kaminey (2009)
Genre: Christian Character, Dark Agenda Challenge, Desi Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel





	Pinjre Mein Chand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [applegnat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applegnat/gifts).



Mikhail Dutta doesn’t remember his parents. This is a lie. He wishes he didn’t, though, and wishing’s half the deal, right? If wishes were horses, Nimisha-di says, short-tempered, almost spiteful, when he talks about going to Bombay, Bollywood, fame and fortune, and how he’s going to be somebody, someday, standing on Dada’s shoulders, clambering over their acquiescent bodies.

 

He is, though. And they’ll let him, way they let him do everything, way they hold him safe. If sometimes that means they strand him in Calcutta, City of Boredom, while they’re living it up elsewhere, well, he’s young, he’s a kid, he’s got time. He’s twelve, and Nimisha-di’s taken to locking him out of her room when her boyfriends come over, and Hamid Chacha’s put a gun in his hands and shown him how to shoot—toy gun, air gun, no good to kill anything but birds, but cold steel’s a comfort against his skin—and Mashimoni still thinks—tells herself—he’s still five, held tight and blithering in panic while his brothers run with blood on their hands.

 

That’s _his_ fault, too. Everything is. And hers. Wankers, fucktards, retards. Who fucking does that, walks out to meet rivals—enemies, dammit—with nothing but a smile and a handgun? Who takes their wives—she’s in his dreams, of late, and he wakes hard and ashamed—on romantic drives when they’re under threat? Daddy does that. And gets himself fucking chopped up with a fucking _katari_, of all fucking things, like something out of a Chironjeet film before the hero gets there. Heroes get there before the women get raped, though.

 

He hopes Baba saw it, all of it, Ma screaming and scratching—Ma hadn’t been what you’d call nice, quiescent, domestic, he knows of the mother he’s made from stories and remembered embraces—before they gouged his fucking eyes out. You’ve got your father’s eyes. Your eyes are like Pradip’s. Bhaisaab gave you his eyes. Tralalalalala. Like he wants Baba’s eyes. He’s seen Baba’s eyes, balls of flesh with the pupils staring. Brought them back in a jar, Hamid Chacha did, day after. He saw, wasn’t supposed to, but he did.

 

Doesn’t do much he’s supposed to, anyhow. Hasn’t forgotten his parents, for one, though he should’ve. Be simpler, that way. Be easier, if he didn’t remember any of the blood and gunpowder smell clinging to Shumon-da’s hands holding him tight, crushing him like the weight of Mashimoni’s rules have, these last years. Not like he doesn’t understand why she’s got the rules, he’s not stupid, and people in this business have long memories and it isn’t like Hamid Chacha can be everywhere, and he’s getting older, Mikhail, shonamoni, isn’t like you don’t know why I’m being careful, be rational, no, you’re twelve.

 

Twelve’s old enough to hold a gun and think about girls. Isn’t like he’s a baby, any more. Big boy, Hamid Chacha says, eyes gleaming, and teeth, behind the beard, Bombay-bound, too. Arre, Mikhail, shonamoni, you’re all grown up.


End file.
